The Misadventures of Drachen
by Tau22
Summary: The Emperor's Finest. Warriors known for their utter devotion to the God-Emperor, though often with no sense of humour. Among them a hero was born, armed with the mightiest weapon of all. Rational thinking. His achievements and misadventures were many and varied. Why don't you see for yourself?
1. Prologue

Cyrax. An obscure little world nestled within the vastness of the Ultima Segmentum. A ferocious home, known predominantly for its prime predator as the Wyrmworld. Wyrms are massive, two-legged beasts, their upper body lizard-like, yet possessing upper limbs resembling those of a monstrous avian. Though they are the largest inhabitants of the planet, they are far from its rulers.

It is human nature to spread to even the most inhospitable reaches and bend nature to their will. Primitive by Imperial standards, the local populace consisted mostly of tribes organised into large clans which fought contained, ritualistic conflicts in reverence of the God Emperor. The wyrms were no small part of this society, tamed for their brute strength as a symbol of status and power and even used in war, though their fiercely temperamental nature kept them contained on Cyrax only.

The recruiting world of the Golden Wyrms chapter of Adeptus Astartes. A successor of none other than the unnecessarily-revered Ultramarines, they were of those who looked upon the great Codex Astartes more... practically. Proud warriors devoted to His holiness, they served with unwavering loyalty.

The lust for aerial combat was in their blood from birth and the chapter proved themselves time and again to be masters of dramatic entry and strapping a jetpack onto absolutely every conceivable thing. Because come on, frikkin' jetpacks.

Among them, there was one name known not only to a select few. Not just another random scribble within the endless archives of the Imperium. A man of exceptional willpower who possessed perhaps the rarest trait in the galaxy. Common sense.

Captain Marcus Drachen, devoted servant of the Emperor. Sworn defender of the Imperium and humanity as a whole. And, from his point of view, one of the few rational beings in the galaxy.


	2. Big Damn Heroes

**Big Damn Heroes**

There was nothing like being on the receiving end of an artillery barrage, maybe except for staring down the barrel of a commissar's handgun. The ground shook as if it was about to split open. Not too far from him, part of the bunker simply caved in and buried a squad of good men alive.

And when the horrific sound of the falling shells finally stopped, it was replaced with something even worse. The roar of hastily-constructed engines and a million greenskins thirsting for some propa' bashin'. He dared gaze up at the horde. By the Emperor, they were endless. Their cobbled-together vehicles mostly crashed together before they ever reached the battleline, but that was just a que for the orks inside to spill out into the open with a battlecry. The first bloodthirsty mobs were a mere hundred metres away, at best. Only a miracle could hold the line.

And conveniently enough, a similar phenomenon occurred, as the sky itself was set aflame. Further inspection revealed it was merely a large number of fireballs heading for the surface, right around where the orks were charging. Handy.

The drop pods impacted like the fists of an angry god, scattering and crushing the orks like mere bugs. As the dust settled, one of the survivors rose to his feet, looked over at the yellow-ish metal pod next to him, picked his nose, then exclaimed:

"Worrrrr, now dat waz close."

Immediately, the drop pod's doors violently opened, smashing him into the ground with a whimper. An imposing figure stepped out, each step accompanied by another orkish whine. He stood tall, as did all of the Emperor's finest, larger than even the mightiest of ordinary men. He wore a suit of armour, a memento of a bygone age, painted a faded gold. On his shoulders, a winged, azure beast shone, roaring in triumph. The figure looked over the battleground, then spoke to an unseen eye in the sky:

"This is Drachen. We have made planetfall. Be ready for our markers."

"Understood. Purge the unclean. Command, out."

The orks' initial charge turned into a mass retreat, but that would not last for long.

"Mathias, Ignus, can you hear me?"

"Reporting, captain." the first voice was surprisingly pleasing to the ears, almost a faint whisper.

"Yeah, yeah, loud and clear." the other was rough as gravel.

"Mathias, take the scouts and mark the targets. Ignus, get familiar with the guardsmen."

He turned slightly and noticed a few guardsmen approaching, lasguns at the ready. Always be ready to shoot, the first rule of war. He noticed all but one had white stripes on their helmets and this supposed leader, lacking a good few of his teeth, spoke:

"My lord! Your arrival was most timely!"

"I can see that. Status report."

"The orks have been bombarding us for less than a day, this was the third charge they've tried. Nothing got through so far, but they did manage to snipe a supply convoy, so we're running low."

"You won't need them, the siege ends tonight."

"Pardon my boldness, but how exactly do we plan on doing that, lord?"

In direct response, more light appeared in the sky, moving at incredible speed. They crashed somewhere on the orkish side of the battlefield and the sound of their gun batteries faded. A few seconds later, the sound of impact reached their position, followed, by the remnants of a shockwave.

"Let's just say we like the term 'Shock and Awe'."

* * *

The sun had gone down, perhaps hiding from the orks as well.

On the other side of the battlefield, there stood a cobbled-together mockery of a fort. Built using everything from scrap, to tanks and even a their previous fort, its walls stood watch over the fields below its elevated position. On the battlements, small clusters of orks chanted and only sometimes gazed over the walls, not particularly expecting any visitors.

Two particularly drunken gits sat on a ramshackle guard tower, holding onto the railing to even stand:

"Oy, so youz see... oh, zog, everythin' be spinnin'. Worr, Iz sayin' wot if Gork an' Mork be da' same thing, see?"

"Oy, don't be ridocu... ridica... dumb, Zodok. Brutal kunnin' an' kunnin' brutalitey in da' same body bitz? Impossibul."

"But ain't deyz like, real big an' stompy? Couldn't it all fit in there?"

"Zog, youz just... oy, ya 'ear somethin'?"

The general peace of the fort's chanting was replaced by loud roars. Any ork could instinctively identify the sound of dozens of rockets and their imaginations ran wild as to what they could be attached to. Only the two watchmen could see it clearly, as several squads of large figures in gold-ish armour rose to the heavens like true angels of retribution. Below, even in their drunken stupor, they could see rows of guardsmen advancing, some of them carrying sizeable satchels. A quick glance back above revealed one of the marines was heading straight for them. Zodok made a grab for his slugga', but managed only to topple over the railing and his companion sighed:

"Oh, zog me."

Impacts sounded across the walls, followed by roars, battlecries and gunfire. Explosions were soon added to the mix as satchel charges blew the orks' shoddy walls apart like a house of cards. Guardsmen streamed into the fort, equipped with nothing but glorified flashlights, mass-produced jackets and Imperial Guard standard-issue proverbial balls of steel. Among them walked the only marines without jetpacks, their heavy weapons almost bigger than the guardsmen themselves.

Even with their great stature, the varyingly-intoxicated greenskins found it difficult to put up a real, propa' fight. But its scale was without a doubt massive, as the fort stretched for a few miles in every which direction, every square inch packed with enough ork to fill a space hulk. The assault squads formed the vanguard, with captain Drachen at the very front, cutting through any and all opposition. Yet the horde seemed to be endless, emerging from huts, provisional sewer grates, some even sprung from rooftops, where they had been forgotten the day before. And while they were all a bit drunk, two hundred inebriated choppa' swings were still two hundred choppa' swings.

Suddenly, without warning, the fighting abruptly stopped, as a mighty shout spread through the fort:

"Oy, knock it off, ya gitz!"

The orks themselves almost immediately complied, while the humans took a few more down before realising resistance had ceased. The two sides stared at each other rather awkwardly. From the largest hut emerged, appropriately, the largest ork. He was a peculiar sight, sporting what seemed to be a supersized, red evening gown, along with a shiny, light blue hat on his noggin. He took sips of some sort of warm liquid from a stolen imperial mug as he looked over all the ex-commotion:

"Oy, 'ow'z Iz supposed ta' get some sleep bitz when youz makin' so much noisy bitz?"

A whisper sounded from Drachen's comm-link:

"I've got him in my sights. Permission to neutralize?"

"Hold fire, Mathias."

"Bah, and wot'z with all ya' squigbrainz, clobberin' 'umiez at night," he pulled an obbviously broken pocketwatch, "it be much too latez fer dat."

"But boss," one of the bigger ones shouted back, "theyz started muckin' about, not uz?"

"Wot? Oy, dat be a problum. Oy, who be da' 'umie boss?"

A few commissars and members of the command staff started arguing with each other, some insisted that even talking to a greenskin was below them. Drachen, meanwhile, stepped forward:

"I speak for the humans."

"Oy, gud. Nice paint job on that armour of yerz, space marine."

"Ummm, thank you. Nice hat."

"Oh, yeh, boss traditiun 'ere fer uz. Anywho, I'z Balrog and I'z da' boss in 'ere."

"Drachen. Let's not waste time."

"Oy, boy of my tastez. Now, listen. Iz waz under da' impressiun that fightin' in da' night be dishuuno... not fair, Iz mean. Me and da' boy'z been lettin' ya sleep and all, just seemz a bit rude to get in 'ere like thiz."

Many of the imperials were outraged, but the captain kept a cool head and turned to the nearest guardswoman with a whisper:

"Have they truly done that?"

"They retreated with the last rays of day, lord."

He turned back to the boss:

"And where have you been taught this?"

"Oy, read this ol' book once. 'Umie one."

"Read?"

"Oh, yeh! Uz Blood Axes be real gud at 'umie thingz."

"And what did that book say about raiding worlds?"

"Raidin'? Oy, we weren't raidin', just 'avin' a bit of afternoon fightin'. Keepz ya' fit."

"Nobody else wanted to take part in your bloodshed, ork."

"Wot," a worried expression soon dominated his face. He mumbled to himself for a few seconds, then turned his head, towards the humies, "oy, youz don't like fightin'? Gettin' shot at, chopped up, da' whole package bitz?"

A murmur spread among the assembled humans, and strangely enough even some of the orks. The negative opinion on such matters was so overwhelmingly obvious that even Balrog noticed and started scratching his chin, then pacing from left to right constantly. The crowd's heads followed him, but it was the captain who broke the silence:

"Well?"

The boss looked up and met his gaze:

"Woorrrr, thiz explainz so much, zog. I'z dunno' wot ta' say. We iz so sorry for inconveniencin' ya'. Metulmasha', Boomzappa'!"

Two orks made their way up to the platform, equal parts cybernetics and flesh. One's most dominant feature was a replacement jaw lined with barbed wire, the other seemed to have some sort of energy weapon replacing a good chunk of the cranium, its barrel where the eye would be:

"Yeh, boss?" they asked in unison.

"Get some gitz and break this fort broken down. We'z leavin'."

"Leaving?!" shouted by nearly everyone in the fort.

"Yeh! We'z need to find a place we'z can call 'ome! Somewhere where we'z won't be 'urtin' anyone who don't deserve it," a nearby grot looked up, hope in his eyes, "you lot be da' exceptiun to prove da' rule."

The diplomatic dealings ended with the poor grot being used as an extended arm as Balrog shook hands with Drachen.

* * *

The departure was hasty, undoubtedly hilarious for the orks involved and strangely peaceful. Their ship was equal parts fortress, spacecraft and death trap. To the greenskins, that probably just meant more excitement. Somehow, it did actually lift off the ground and started piercing the atmosphere, leaving behind a massive trail of smoke.

A figure suddenly stood next to him in a suit resembling that of elite imperial drop troops, but in the Wyrm's colours. He had not heard him approach as always:

"How did you know this would be the result, captain?"

"I didn't. But when an ork is willing to talk, listening is usually a good idea, Mathias."

"Noted."

A more audible figure appeared on the roof, cursing about the size of the stairs. One of the many commissars. Drachen turned and they both formed the imperial Aquila with their fingers:

"My lord, what you did was... remarkable."

"Remarkable things are what turns the tide. But it is the grim determination of our troops that holds the line in the first place."

"Very true and I shall ensure it remains that way. The commanding officers are writing a report on the situation and they asked for your input."

"The line was held and the arrival of the Golden Wyrms turned the tide. The orks fled on a craft of their own design. Say no more and no less."

"But lord, what of the..."

"Trust me. It is simpler this way. Say any more and certain... inquisitive persons may ask further questions."

The commissar gazed at him for a good few seconds, then merely nodded and made his way back down. The captain looked back up, the ship was just a speck at that point. He wondered if there even was a place for such a group, other than some big, desolate rock, away from anything else. Or perhaps fate, or even the machinations of the Warp, had different things in mind.


	3. A Dysfunctional Family

**A Dysfunctional Family**

In the annals of our chapter, one can find a handful of notable heroes. Names such as:

Saeryn the Dumbfounded, notable for once sending a powerful daemon prince packing back into the warp, though to this day he does not know how he did it.

Malin, dubbed unofficially the Techmarine Prime after his revolutionary discoveries in the fields of jet propulsion and general transport, developping the very first dreadnought-sized thruster pack. Currently, his work concentrates on providing a similar option for our mighty devastators.

Detritus the Clutz, who nobly sacrificed himself by accidentally falling into a battle barge's engine and dislodging a saboteur's charge on the way.

Such great heroes.

Yet even the mightiest of warriors would be nowhere without those around them. Their battle brothers, their chapter, every single guardsman willing to give their life to hold the line. Only those who realise that they are nothing without these other brave souls can transcend from heroism into legend.

But as history teaches us, a legend always has their foil.

_\- from the memoirs of Leon Sakul, chief librarian of the Golden Wyrms_

* * *

"Everyone ready?" the thunderhawk rocked due to both turbulence and ambient gunfire as the captain asked one last time.

"Ummm, what are we doing again?"

The entire thunderhawk collectively sighed at the infamous marine, a survivor of a direct artillery hit, yet still officially fit for standard service. Drachen repeated:

"Tenebris, we are making a high-altitude deployment onto a moving hostile vessel in search of stolen imperial artefacts."

"Oh, right. Titus would be proud, sir."

"What?"

"I should have been a dreadnought."

"Riiight. Anyway, prepare for flight, wyrms," he then set his comlink to the other squads, "this is Drachen. Ready to jump."

"Roger. Close combat loadout equipped."

"Ready for a dramatic entry, as well."

"Emperor be with you, brothers."

The thunderhawk's rear doors slid open and the marines rushed out into the open atmosphere. Its clouds were of a mildly unhealthy yellow hue, caused by only the finest of manufactorums dedicated to the God-Emperor. They let themselves drop a few hundred feet before finally igniting their thruster packs and gliding towards the target.

The massive craft was akin to a simple, if enormous sea ship, and it had probably began as one. If one inspected its outer hull long enough, they could still make out the remains of a mast. Technically voidworthy, parts of its outer hull were retractable to allow for loading and unloading of various air-and-space vehicles. The largest of those was near the back of the craft, the repurposed remnants of a sea ship's deck. It was this entrance that the marines hoped to exploit.

Bursts of small arms fire passed near the assault marines as they successfully landed. Immediately, the satisfying revs of a dozen chainswords filled the air. The defenders roared their battlecries and charged to meet the astartes, armed with crude axes and physically impossible weapons:

"Space marinez! Get 'em, zog 'em up!" came from the crowd.

"Maintain formation and secure the area!"

Outnumbered but never outmatched, the Emperor's spear held its ground. Ranged greenskins started gathering in force, only to be foiled by new arrivals. Though not protected by the fine power armour of their brethren, the scouts possessed remarkable agility. The combat shotguns whose powerful blasts echoed throughout the hangar didn't hurt, either.

After cleaning up any stragglers, the two squads met with nods, handshakes and the occasional high-five. Drachen walked up to the scouts' leader, denoted by bright blue crest on his chestplate, similar to his own. A roaring, winged beast, defiant against the odds.

"Excellent timing, Mathias."

"As per your orders, captain."

Without warning, the ship's inner speaka' system activated and an all-too familiar voice came, high-pitched for an ork, but still rather deep by human standards:

"Well, well, well, wot 'ave wez 'ere? Space marinez on me ship? Iz wonda' who it might be? Mayhapz me favourite marinez of 'em all?"

"I had hoped to keep a low profile."

"If I may, captain, we've never been good at that."

"Too true, friend."

"Now, Iz waz expectin' ya', really. Call it a kind a' orky sense bit. And since Iz know 'ow much youz love uz orksez, Iz made a real great party fer ya'," suddenly, unassuming voice turned to a terrifying commanding shout, "go get 'em, ya' slobz! And bring me a few souvenirz!"

From every entrance, more greenskins burst inside, easily several dozen for each marine and filled with a typically orky bloodlust.

"Forma-," a series of loud clangs suddenly sounded from behind them and he turned, "-tion."

Specialised single-person drop harnesses stood in place of a decidedly orky transport shuttle. The new marines could not descend using any form of thruster packs, if only because their weapons were almost as heavy as them. The crest shone brightly on Ignus' chest.

"You heard the captain, boys!

Some of the orks in the front rows immediately had some second thoughts about charging, but were pushed along by the ones in the back. The devastators aimed their mighty guns at the horde and waited patiently for a single phrase:

"Fire at will!"

A storm of heavy bolter fire filled the air and tore through the orkish rabble like a lascannon through butter. Bloody chunks flew through the air as the first salvo came to end, with very little resistance left behind afterwards. A few of the survivors, the smarter sort, decided to play dead, while the foolish attempted to make a run for it, only to experience nasty cases of explosive intestines. The voice came again from the speakaz, though some of them had been wrecked during the previous barrage:

"Oy, that ain't nice. I'z 'ad them wallz painted fer gud teef. Bah, not a single bit a' compeytence in yer krew these dayz."

"Hahah, I hate to spoil your fun, but as always, devastators are ruling the kill count," several fists clashed with a resounding 'Hurrah!', "so, what's the plan now?"

"I will need a diversion. Ignus, Mathias, take the men and carve a path to one of the side hangars, then prepare for extraction. I shall retrieve the relic."

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

"I am most curious, as well."

"I have a plan, worry not. Wish me luck."

"Heh, you'll need it. Alright, devastators, we move!"

As the marines moved out, the screams of their unfortunate foes echoing even from a distance, Drachen found one of the terrified survivors and stepped on the greenskin's neck, before kneeling a bit lower, close enough to whisper:

"I have an offer for you, ork."

"O-oh? Iz dat so?"

"Yes. Tell me what I want and I'll let you come back for another go."

The xeno did not fully comprehend its lack of bargaining power and actually thought about it, then replied:

"Oh, yeh, dat seemz fair."

"How do I get down to," then said as if recited according to a dictionary, "da' shiny bitz?"

"Oy, propa' orky! That'z easy, jus' go down da' left and find da' eleyvata' thingy."

"Fankz, ork."

* * *

The elevator doors slid apart, the contraption itself almost exploding from the effort, and a single, short hallway stretched before him. At the other end was a simple door. He rushed to open it and was immediately assaulted by the wind.

He walked onto a small maze of scaffoldings hastily attached to the bottom of the kruuza, passing over and under each other like some sort of badly construct super highway. The Emperor's gaze was on him. The statue was massive, forged from pure gold and was one of the few items in the Imperium itself which captured His holy visage. Like a slice of time from a different age.

Dozens upon dozens of large chains kept the mighty statue suspended in the air, connected in equal parts to the ship and the scaffolding. His plan of action obvious, he revved up his trusty chainsword and took several steps. An all-too-familiar voice stopped him dead in his tracks:

"Long timez no seein', Drachen boy.

He spun around to face the gargantuan ork. To most, he would have seemed like the very ideal of orkish opulence. A veteran of hundreds of scraps, the kaptin possessed more cybernetic replacements than a company of Imperial Fists. Both of his arms were repurposed, though not into glorified weapons, but actual arms with functional digits, while one of his legs was akin to the talons of a bird of prey. Even his lower jaw was completely artificial. His clothes were crimson, somewhere between armour and actual fashion, topped off by an oversized hat-helmet with a grinning moon drawn on it.

Most peculiar, was that every cybernetic was clumsily gold plated. Clumsily, in that the orks had literally taken plates of gold and rammed them onto the parts, often leaving holes behind. Due to his sheer awesome strength, however, the kaptin didn't even notice the added weight. Nowhere else was this more apparent than on his jaw, whose golden teeth swayed into conversation without any hindrance:

"'Ow nice of ya' ta' come visit."

"Not like you left me a choice, Nagosh."

The kaptin drew a weapon from a sheath on his back. Most would have classed it as a chainsword, though one of ridiculous size, probably larger than the guarsmen it so routinely eviscerated:

"Youz know Iz like shiny stuff. Worrr, when Iz melt thiz one down, nice and propa', Iz gunna' gold-plate me favourite dredd."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"Heheh. You'z assumin' you'z got a say in da' matta'."

And then, with a mighty battlecry, the giant charged and attacked with a wide swing. Drachen rolled forward, dodging the whirling doom by mere inches, and retaliated with his own weapon. The ork was surprisibgly fast for his weight class and the swing only scraped against his shoulder pads. Nagosh chuckled, then went a big, overhead attack, more smash than cut, which th captain evaded by moving to a lower scaffolding. The blow cut through the thn metal like nothing and the two gazed at each other for a few seconds.

"Later, friend," spoke the wyrm, and sprinted towards the statue.

"Get back 'ere, ya lil' runt!"

He jumped down and gave chase, but Drachen was already hard at work, sawing through the chains holding the massive statue. Thick as they were, they proved a challenge even for a mighty chainsword. For each few seconds he had to wait, the kaptin got closer, eyes blood red with fury. Finally, he rammed into the marine like a comet, sending him flying for a good few metres. Mid-flight, an idea came to mind. As soon as started getting back up, he shouted to the brute:

"What's the matter, Nagosh. A gretchin hits harder than that!"

"Wot?! You'z gunna' be grot food when I'z done with ya'!"

The giant attacked with even greater fury, raining swings from every conceivable angle, the marine only barely dodging each blow, before finally tripping on a shoddily-attached chunk of metal. Nagosh stood over him like an alpha predator and gloated:

"Any last wordz, ol' friend?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Wot," suddenly, a loud crack sounded from above. He looked up and saw pieces of the ship's hastily-added plating twisting due to the statue's weight. Another look revealed that he had himself cut at least a dozen chains in his battle fury. A third look revealed a kneeling space marine, his jetpack already powering up, "uh ohz."

Assisted by the thrust, Drachen delivered a truly mighty headbutt and sent the giant down to the ground. He then swiftly jumped onto the statue, delivering a swift prayer for forgiveness as he did so, and once again revved up his weapon. Nagosh got up just in time to see him saw through a couple more chains.

"No!"

"Sorry, but I must fly. Places to be."

Finally the ship's armour plates could not hold anymore and were either torn open or detached themselves entirely. The statue and its 'rider' both fell. Angered beyond words, the greenskin walked up to the now-empty hole and shouted loud enough for half the planet to hear:

"I'z gunna' get ya' one of these dayz, 'umie! Iz Nagosh Rendrippa', Skurge of da' Seventy-seven Secturz! And Iz say so!"

* * *

The world looked rather nice from such a height. He seemed to be on a collision course with a populated zone, which was far from ideal, but Warp, the mission was at least a success. A voice suddenly came from his com-link:

"What in Emperor's name are you doing, you old fool?!"

A thunderhawk dropship suddenly passed by him and maintained a close proximity.

"Good to hear you, too, Ignus."

"Was this your master plan all along?"

"You tell me how else we could have gotten a statue of this size out of there. Gravity is always the easiest option."

A half-whisper chimed in:

"You do realise where you are headed, captain?"

"Do I want to?"

"No."

* * *

The chamber was split. One side was in uproar, the other was trying to calm them down. Above it all, an ageing man sat in an ornate chair, listening wearily to the bickering.

"They are space marines, for Throne's sake!"

"Yes, a small handful that happened to be nearby! We are talking about a ship filled with tens of thousands of orks!"

"The navy must get involved, if only to finally get rid of this corsair!"

"The navy cannot spare a single ship, you know this! With the orks under Killwrencha' nearing the sub-sector..."

"Silence!" the governor rose from his ornate seat and the room obeyed. As he took another breath to continue, however...

The chamber's ceiling collapsed to the screams of the occupants. The man thought of many things. Bombs, an attack, a siege. But when the dust finally cleared, he most certainly did not expect to see the Emperor's golden gaze. Another golden figure soon glided into the room, using controlled thrusts of his jetpack to descend at a controlled rate. The marine finally landed, looked around and then met gazes with the ageing man:

"Lord-governor Vandis?"

"Yes," he said with a slight smile.

"Express delivery, courtesy of the Golden Wyrms."


	4. A Day on Wyrmworld

**A day on Wyrmworld**

Cyrax was nowhere near as dangerous as a death world, but it was far from some sissy garden world. Tropical climates dominated, spreading vast jungles and rocky deserts in equal measure, both places filled with rather hostile creatures and beasts. The herbivores were tough, the carnivores ferocious and the omnivores mostly extinct. A hunter's paradise, truly, each such creature a worthy trophy.

The wyrms, the kings of the planet's fauna, were off-limits, however. Under the protection of the local populace, they were as much alpha predators as symbols of Cyrax itself. And when the local protective populace included a Chapter of Adeptus Astartes, would-be poachers thought at least thrice about such hunts.

The Golden Wyrms were, much like their namesakes, nestled at high altitudes. Their fortress of a home was composed of several massive structures, hanging from the mountains like leeches and connected by complex systems of bridges and elevators. Not the most practical setup, often criticised by anyone with a smidge of brains. New recruits often got lost in its humongous webs of paths for hours or even days at a time. Veterans claimed learning the labyrinth was the first trial to becoming a true space marine.

On the other hand, it was defensible. Inaccessible to all but the most determined of attackers, heavily reinforced against both natural forces and the toughest of siege weaponry. Enemy ground forces were likely to starve after deployment, incapable of making sense of the bridges and paths presented to them, and could outright forget capturing any key structure in a timely manner. Most importantly, its form and location allowed the fortress to have unique leisure-time facilities for the marines in question.

* * *

The workshop was rather spacious, stretching up to a formidable height. This was necessitated due to its sole inhabitant and his space-intensive research. A group of semi-willing test subjects lined the wall, promised extended leisure time for any resulting injuries. They were all strapped in crude mockeries of regular devastator gear, made mostly from scrap metal. Function over form, however, for the suits had roughly the same weight and aerodynamic properties as the originals. Testing required such measures, for one could hardly risk endangering proper archeotech.

The experimenter stood there with his humanoid arms crossed. A trio of extra appendages held a notepad, a pen and a mug of caffeine with some text on it: 'Number 1 Rule Bender'. He was overall still mostly organic, at least on the outside. His inner workings were discreetly superior to simple flesh. With a final sip, the writer mechadendrites readied themselves as he shouted:

"Commence the experiment!" one of his seemingly-human hands smashed a large red button on a nearby console as the four test subjects shuddered.

The results were mixed at best. The first was equipped with a variation of rocket boots which did lift him, but then flipped him over in the air and slammed him face-first into the ground. Too difficult to control.

The second, with thrusters attached to the mimicked ammo pack, lost said mimicry and watched it embed itself in the ceiling, dumbfounded. Once the thruster's fuel ran out it came crashing down and dislocated his jaw. Too strong for the joints.

The third had what the techmatine had called an 'unsafety ring', with thrusters placed along the entire waist. He rose to the air like a spinning comet and spent a good few minutes after inevitable impact walking into nearby tables. Too hard to harmonise individual thrusts.

The last one had a regular thruster pack strapped to the front. The flight seemed fine at first, until part of the scrap armour began melting due to the backburn, accompanied by blood-curdling screams and a swift transport to the apothecary. Too bad.

He sighed as he took another sip of the caffeine:

"Thank you for your cooperation. I shall call you when I have made further improvements."

A second, all-too familiar voice sounded behind him:

"Still hard at work, Malin?"

He turned to see a man dressed in almost primitive armour. Mostly reinforced leather, with hints of metal in select parts. The helmet, however, was high-tech, concealing the entire face and loaded with helpful targeting systems and other protective features. He had made only a few of such and greeted the bearer with a smile:

"Ah, welcome, Marcus. Yes, you know how it goes. Bloody devastators."

The captain nodded:

"I merely wished to thank you for the helmet. Marvellous piece of craftsmanship."

"Ah, it's nothing, really. You do need the protection, captain. After all, she does love her speed."

"That she does. In any case, I'm off to hunt. Good luck with your endeavours."

Two hands, one organic, one mechanical, waved Drachen off as Malin returned to his work. Perhaps using more volatile fuel could provide the answer to this conundrum.

* * *

He entered the labyrinthine hallways of bridges and strode forward with absolute certainty, taking seemingly nonsensical turns which sometimes sent him in the opposite direction of his destination. At one crossroad, he met with what seemed to be newly-ascended recruits, led by a marine in full power armour. The figure complained aloud:

"Back in my day, they used to give you a medal for navigating the Webway, but not anymore!"

"Tenebris," he shouted out and walked closer to the group. The recruits gazed at him hopefully, "what in Emperor's name are you doing?"

"I am leading the faithful in an assault against craftworld Sheik! Wasn't that the whole point of this bloody campaign?!"

Drachen placed a hand on his shoulder:

"We're on Cyrax, Tenebris. That war is ten years gone."

"Oh, right," without even contemplating the situation, he turned to the recruits once more, " this way to the mess hall!"

He marched off without even waiting for a response, while the rest stared at the captain:

"Sir, we are actually searching for the armoury. We were told to find it yesterday and found that marine during the first rays of morning. Can you aid us?"

"Yes, yes, come with me. Despite your choice of guide, you are fortunate. We still haven't found a few recruits from last week. This way."

They followed him like a pack of schoolchildren, always staying close with nervous gazes at every junction. One of the group finally asked:

"May I ask something?"

"Go ahead, friend."

"How do you know where you are going in this mess?"

He chuckled and replied:

"The first few months are the hardest, I'll admit. I recommend always travelling in groups, with a map of the fortress and a compass. Then, you must remember the golden rule."

"The golden rule, sir?"

"Indeed," he made a sudden right turn, "every third junction, if possible, you must take a path directly opposite your desired direction. I do not know how the architects managed to actually incorporate a rule into this maniacal construction, but it is there."

"We shall keep that in mind. I would hate to be a foe sieging this place."

"Those that have tried would agree with you."

"May I ask who our saviour is?"

"Captain Marcus Drachen, third company."

A murmur spread among the recruits, until another finally spoke up:

"It is an honour, sir!"

"Indeed! Not everyday am I escorted by a hero of the Astartes."

"I am no hero, recruits," he turned his head, "I am just a devoted servant of the Emperor. I do what I must."

"You imply that any other could do what you have."

They talked one after another:

"The siege of Kvatch, where you led the but a few squads on a flight into the jaws of the chaos horde and slew their warlord."

"Ghedi Prime, where you braved the deadly jungle and sabotaged enemy defences before the final assault."

"Valoran, where you manipulated..."

"Enough," they were silenced immediately, "venerating names and deeds is important. But even the greatest of heroes would be nothing without those that hold the line. Where would I be without my battle brothers? Where would the Imperium be without the millions of men and women willing to give their lives? Fortune smiled upon me many times and now my name is in old dusty tomes. But without all the rest, I'd be a dead man in a ditch, somewhere on a forgotten world. Look up to our heroes. But never forget, they were never alone."

"Yes, sir!" they spoke in unison.

"Good. Ah, here we are."

They found themselves on a platform, unprotected from the winds. A strange structure stood in its middle, a trio of tall walls with some ladders attached. On each floor of the architectural sillyness, several warhorns rested, pointing towards the mountain itself. Several more pathways connected to the platform, heading to one's destination or a slow descent into paranoia and loneliness. Equal chance, really.

"If you follow that passageway over there, you'll reach the armoury. Simplicity itself, for once. Now, if you will excuse me," he walked up to a warhorn placed on ground level of the structure. Supposed heroism did have its perks, "I have a hunt to get to."

He blew on the horn and it emitted a strangely high-pitched sound which echoed along the mountain. Each was tuned slightly differently, so that they could be told apart by one with a keen sense of hearing. As he walked out, the recruits were still there:

"I was not aware you had one, sir."

"Oh, I am not surprised. Our archivists are tight-lipped about the issue. Not that she would need any real protection, of course."

A roar suddenly sounded in response to the horn and the flapping of wings could be heard. A large shape passed the platform, flew around it with surprising speed, before finally setting down, its final flap knocking a few of the recruits of their feet. The beast was mighty, easily the size of a tank, its wing span twice as long. Her scales were the colour of brass and she was rather slender for her species, though still with enough muscle power to snap a man in half like a twig. Two large, emerald eyes gazed first at the recruits with a snarl, then turned to Drachen. The wyrm emitted an uncharacteristic sound, almost like a kitten's purr, and lowered her draconic head to the captain. He reached up and rubbed her neck, earning another purr, then turned back to them:

"Meet the most spoiled damn creature on Cyrax. Say hello, Geraldine," she growled, revealing teeth sharper than a combat knife, "good girl."

They stared at her in awe:

"She's a real beauty, sir."

"And a feisty one, as well. In any case," he grabbed a saddle from a nearby holder, "Emperor be with you, friends."

"And with you, captain."

* * *

She waited patiently as he carefully fastened the saddle and climbed up onto her back. There was no sign of protest and she once more rose and walked over to the edge of the platform. He enjoyed the view for a moment and grabbed hold of the saddle firmly. She had grown into such a beauty. It seemed almost like yesterday, when he had found her... time flied fast. He was quite sure, however, that Geraldine was faster:

"We fly! To the hunt!"

She roared ecstatically and leapt off the platform. Drachen screamed at the top of his lungs even as the wind threatened to cave his chest in. Yet it was in that moment, with nothing but his grip keeping him from an untimely demise, that he felt most alive.


End file.
